


#UtilitySaxMan

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack, I have no excuses, M/M, Memes, because of course it is, never thought I'd tag Ellen in a fic, shenanigans with the "fuck shit up jacket"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: What happens when a demon decides to use old memes from 2010 and his "fuck shit up jacket" to cause a ruckus in Soho?This, apparently.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 100





	#UtilitySaxMan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [appleduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleduty/gifts).



> This is based on some ridiculous Eurovision based conversations in the Ineffable Outliers discord server and I have absolutely no excuses.
> 
> I'm gifting this to appleduty because half of these ideas were hers.
> 
> Please don't attempt to take this fic seriously because it is not xD
> 
> **  
> For best results, click the link on "6:00 AM Saturday morning" when you get there and leave it playing while you read!  
> **
> 
> We'll see if anyone besides me remembers this meme.

**_An undetermined Friday, post Armageddon. Mayfair, London_ **

Anyone walking down the street in Mayfair that night would hear shouting. Or at least they would, but the walls of the flat knew better than to let any sound out without permission. If one were to look through the window, one would see an iPhone slam against a concrete wall1.

Crowley had been trying to get a hold of Aziraphale for well past two days, with no answer. He’d driven by the shop, but the angel had been out both times. He, of course, did not want to appear like he _cared_ so scoping out the shop more than necessary was completely out of the question2.

He sat in his ostentatious throne seething; how _dare_ Aziraphale avoid him like this. Two could play it this game, and he could play very demonically if he wanted to.

Crowley stood and went to the closet in his bedroom and pulled out two very specific items. A black jacket with reflective orange tape and a large, oddly shaped black case.

Yes, two could play at this game. And if the angel wanted to ignore him, he’d make that task impossible.

\---

**_[6:00 AM Saturday morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MahnCwctRAg); the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

“C’mon, Linda, just pop on back to mine for a bit, yer mum ain’t gonna know!”

“Danny ya absolute toss, I’ll do no such thing!”

The young couple swayed through the near empty streets of Soho, drunk on wine and each other’s company.

“But Linda-“

“Don’t ‘But Linda’ _me_ Danny Williams,” Linda says, pointing a shaky finger in his face with no real bite behind her words, “We ain’t been dating but a fortnight and you ain’t gettin’ me in the bed that easily!”

“But Linda, when I’m with you I can…I can…” Danny grasped for something, anything to say, “I can hear music!”

“Cheek!” she said but looped her arm back in his anyway and leaned against him as they started back down the street.

“Really can, ya know?” Danny said with more than a little bounce in his step, “Really snazzy saxophone music!”

“Danny,” Linda pointed towards a tall ginger man in a utilities uniform, “I think it’s that man in front of old Mr. Fell’s.”

Sure enough, as they got closer, the man was playing on a saxophone. At six am outside of a bookshop. This would _seem_ to have no discernable reason, but the great thing about the human brain in the way She made it is that when there is no reason, that’s reason enough.

“Well I dunno why he’s doing it, but for a telephone worker he sure is great at those few bars of whatever that is.”

“Sounds familiar though, don’t it?” Linda said quizzically, “Wonder where I’ve heard it before?”

“Either way, it’s Soho on a weekend, he’s probably just a sloshed as we are.”

“Probably so, now walk me home you old buffoon.”

Danny and Linda strolled off arm in arm and the utility worker just kept playing.

\---

**_8:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

Bill Waters was a patient man. An upstanding member of the community. A lawyer. He dressed in smart suits and was never seen without his pork pie hat. He had an _image_.

They had scoffed when he’d opened his practice in Soho. They’d laughed. But now? Oh, _now,_ he was one of the most respected litigators in London.

He prided himself on his work ethic, his attention to detail, and his meticulous methods. He prided himself on his patience with his clients, with his family, and with anyone who he met. The community loved him, his neighbors loved him, his family _adored_ him.

Which is why several people milling around the early morning streets were shocked to see him jumping up and down and yelling at a street performer.

“Sir, I demand in the name of common decency that you stop this _at once!_ ” Bill shouted, face turning a rather embarrassing shade one could liken to a tomato plant, “It’s been _two bloody hours! 3_”

If the man from the utilities paid any mind to him, he didn’t let it show. Just kept playing the same four bars over and over again.

“I _will_ call your superiors! What are you even supposed to be _doing?!_ ”

The man just continued with his smooth beats and rhythmic dancing. Was it dancing? Could barely call it that in the first place. Like something out of a bad 1970’s instructional video.

Bill continued to yell; the man continued to ignore it.

This just wouldn’t do, Bill resolved to phone the utilities company at once. He threw his hat down in frustration and stormed back across the street to his offices.

\---

**_10:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

“D’you think he lost some kind of bet?”

“Dunno…sounds familiar though, doesn’t it?”

“Ain’t this that shit from Eurovision like ten years ago? The saxophone guy?”

Nathan, Alice, and Jude were gathered around the strange man with the saxophone. They’d already tossed some money in his hat and were waiting for him to get around to taking requests. They were also by far not the only ones in the crowd.

“It is!” Alice said pulling up YouTube on her phone, “It’s the Epic Sax Guy music!”

“Christ that meme is older than dirt,” Jude said grimacing, “Why you reckon he’s doing this?”

“Maybe Mr. Fell pissed him off,” Nathan said, laughing, “He’s pissed off enough people around here with those weird hours.”

“Dad said he’s been at it since six this morning,” Alice (last name of Waters) said, “That’s four hours ago! That’s insane!”

“We oughta put it up somewhere, do a live stream or something. See how long he goes!”

“You know, Nathan, maybe we should,” Jude said, pulling out his cell phone, “Hell, I don’t have anywhere to be.”

The saxophone man played on.

\---

**_11:00 AM Saturday morning; the news offices of the BBC_ **

“Christ, William, it must be a slow day if this is what you’re giving me.” Margaret, producer for the BBC Weekend News said angrily into the phone receiver, “You really expect me to send reporters out to video a street performer in Soho? As if they aren’t a dime a dozen?”

She listened to the murmuring on the other end of the line, “Five hours? The whole time? And he’s dressed like what? A utilities worker? What do you mean Twitter?”

Margaret pulled out her phone and opened the app, clicking through to the trending page. Sure enough, there at number one: #UtilitySaxMan.

“Well, it is a slow day. Fine, send someone, just try to find me something _real_ to put on the air by tonight, yes? I can’t just be putting Twitter fluff on the air!”

Margret slammed the phone back on the receiver and shook her head. What was the news world coming to these days? She blamed the millennials.

\---

**_11:30 AM London time (3:30 AM California time). The Montecito home of Ellen DeGeneres_ **

“I’m just saying we _need_ this guy on the show. You know how much the audience loves an internet celebrity. Yes, that’s why I called you, because you’re in London.”

To the dismay of her wife who just wanted to sleep, Ellen was on the phone at 3:30 in the morning with one of the show’s associates in England. Once she got the idea to have someone on her show, there really wasn’t much anyone could do to stop her.

“So, _no one_ knows who this guy is? He just showed up with a saxophone and started playing? Well that won’t stop us. Just go down there and talk to him when he stops playing. I just need him on my show, he’s trending like crazy, the memes are ridiculous!”

“I should probably go, but don’t let me down! This guy is insane, he should be a star!”

She hung up as Portia threw a pillow at her.

\---

**_1:00 PM Saturday afternoon; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

“Play Single Ladies!” A voice from the gathered crowd shouted.

“Shut up, he’s not taking requests!” Jude shouted back at them.

“What are you, his agent?”

“I might be after this is over, you don’t know that!” Jude hissed from behind his phone, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

The livestream was an immediate hit. He’s been inundated with new followers and reaction memes4. Even the BBC was here, along with several people in strange getups. He’d gotten three direct tweets from Ellen DeGeneres already, though he couldn’t answer. Not while the livestream was going.

This dude was _insane_. He never stopped; he was like a damn machine. Just kept playing and dancing (badly) and playing. He ignored everyone around him, ignored that his hat was now full past capacity of spare change and 1£ notes.

It was like he was on a mission, though what that mission could be was anyone’s guess.

“Young man, have you any idea who this fellow is?” one of the men in strange getups, this one wearing a monocle, asked him.

“Nah, can’t say that I do,” said Jude, “I mean, he hangs out at Mr. Fell’s shop a lot, seems to know him. Dunno why he’s doing this though.”

“Did you hear that?” the man in the monocle said to another, this one with a two-tone wig, “He knows the bookshop owner! That’s our in!”

\---

**_3:00 PM Saturday afternoon; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

“It is _clearly_ a performance showing the prevalence of man over the subjugation of the corporate world! He celebrates his union job by playing this jubilant music!” said the man in the two-tone wig.

“I beg to differ; it is quite _certainly_ a cry at the unjust conditions faced by workers!” said the man with a monocle.

These two had exactly three things in common: They were art critics, they were insufferable, and they had been arguing about this for the better part of two hours.

“How can you be so daft? The rawness and realness and _power_ of this performance can only be described as euphoric!”

“Ah but you fail to take into account the monotony and the repetitive action! This man is in a prison of his own creation! A brilliant metaphor for the world under capitalism!”

The two men continued arguing and were approached by a man in a tan coat that was about one hundred and fifty years out of date.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” the man said, “But could you possibly tell me what all of the commotion is outside of my bookshop?”

“Oh, my _goodness_ , you must be Mr. Fell! And you haven’t heard?!” shouted the first critic, acting as though he might faint, “The art world is completely a _buzz!_ ”

“It would seem, my friend, that the next great performance artist of our times has taken up residence outside your bookshop! Please, please introduce us to him!”

Mr. Fell looked confused as he tore away from the art critics and through the crowd. Past the young man with the camera, past the BBC News van, and past some Americans speaking very loudly into their cell phones.

“Crowley, what on _Earth_ are you _doing?_ ”

The saxophone music stops abruptly. All eyes turn and focus on Mr. Fell.

“Oh, hello Angel…” the saxophone man stammers, “Just..uh…”

Before anyone can say anything, Mr. Fell storms forward and grabs the saxophone man by the arm, ushering him into the bookshop, behind a sign that clearly says “CLOSED”.

The crowd disperses, first the news van, then the passerby, then the art critics and the Americans. Jude stands there for a moment wondering what just happened.

He soon forgets why he was there in the first place, and if Twitter held any clues for him, they’re long gone now. Later, he'd look in his book-bag and find it full of loose change and 1£ notes.

Just an ordinary Saturday in Soho.

\---

**_3:15 PM Saturday afternoon; inside A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London_ **

“Would you care to explain, dear,” Aziraphale says as he unpacks his leather satchel, “just _why_ you’re playing saxophone on my front stoop? And the news vans? And the _art critics_. You know how much I hate art critics!”

“You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Crowley says sulking on his favorite couch, “Got mad.”

“And did you conveniently forget dinner last week when I told you I’d be in Munich for a book auction for a few days?” Aziraphale shoots him a pointed look, “or were you just not listening in the first place?”

“Ngk.”

“I see,” the angel says, turning back to his books in a huff, “and how long were you out there?”

Crowley mumbled.

"Didn't quite catch that."

"I said ten hours," Crowley snapped, "Doing very demonic things, ruining everyone's weekend. Can take the demon out of hell but not hell out of the demon and all that." He crossed his arms over his chest and sulked lower into the couch than should be possible.

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he put away his new books, “Yes _of course_ , my dear. Is that why you brought out the 'mess stuff up' jacket?Brightening everyone’s day with a bit of music, giving the BBC something to talk about? Such a _demonic_ level of happiness out in the street today.”

“I-well-well,you-I-“ Crowley stammered, jumping up to stalk behind the angel to prove his point, “I made an old bloke with a pork pie hat have a fit, right in the middle of the street!”

Aziraphale sighed, Crowley was never quite as smooth as he pretended to be, and the angel saw right through him.

“My dear you are quite ridiculous, next time just come with me then you won’t feel the need for this nonsense.”

Crowley shoved his hands back in his pockets, trying to look aloof and failing, “I mean…I guess. Could use a vacation. Plenty of demonic wiles to get up to outside the country. Gotta keep you out of trouble...of course.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, clasping his hands together, “There we go then, problem solved!”

If the angel knew it was an excuse on the demon’s part to spend more time with him, he didn’t say. Nor did he mind in the slightest.

\-----

1 – The iPhone, of course, knew better than to break. Just who’s apartment do you think we’re dealing with here, hmm?

2 – Least of all because he was scared of a certain angel picking up on a certain demon’s propensity to be what the kids referred to as a _stage five clinger_.

3 – In Bill Waters’ defense, he’d been late at the office the previous night working on a particularly challenging case. He’d been so exhausted, when the saxophone started up at around 6 am he’d thought himself hallucinating.

4 – Some choice memes that were shared on twitter:

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on Tumblr! [@moveslikebucky](http://moveslikebucky.tumblr.com)


End file.
